


The Cupcake Identity

by destimushi



Series: The Cupcake Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Bossy Castiel, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explosions, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Rock Star Dean Winchester, cupcake verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Rising punk rock sensation, Dean Winchester, and Castiel Novak, the owner of A Taste of Heaven Bakery, have been seeing each other for some time. Despite enjoying each other’s company inside and outside the bedroom, Dean and Cas have never discussed what their relationship means.Dean doesn’t want to keep things under wraps anymore, but little does he know coming clean to his fans will reveal even more secrets…secrets that prove to be lethal.CAN BE READ AS STANDALONE





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaah it is finally time for me to post the last part to the Cupcake Verse, and what better way to do it than as an entry for the DeanCasMiniBang 2018! 
> 
> Thanks to my amazing beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay) for checking this over and making it pretty. All other mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight) for finding the biggest fucking timeline inconsistency of the century. You saved my ass big time! Your alpha reading is <3! 
> 
> I got to work with the wonderful [Jdragon122](https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/) for some amazing art. You can find the art masterpost [here](https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/post/175630720025/dcmb-art-for-the-cupcake-identity-by-destimushi). She's such a sweetie to work with and her art is phenomenal. Please go check her out and give her some love! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been following along with this series. I hope this is a satisfactory ending!

 

“F-fuck, Cas—”

“Shh, I have you.” Cas runs gentle fingers along Dean’s back, and his hot breath rides the coattails of the featherlight touch. 

Dean shudders and cants his hips, his ass pushing higher even as his chest slides along the rumpled sheets. The finger buried inside him curls, and Dean’s knees struggle to hold his weight. Then the finger slides out and disappears. 

The sheets are damp beneath Dean’s cheeks as he smothers his face into the mattress, panting into the high thread-count like his life depends on it. Cas’ finger dips back inside him, joined by another, and Dean’s hole spasms. The burning stretch thrills down his spine, but the discomfort dissipates before his next inhale, replaced by a hungry need to be filled deeper. To be scooped out clean until Dean’s head is emptier than a whore’s promise. 

Cas’ fingers twist, slick, smooth, and gentle finger pads brush along a bundle of nerves. Dean’s breath hitches. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s what Dean needs even if he’s not sure this is what he wants. 

A firmer touch, a sharp little tap, and Dean’s vision blurs as fresh tears spring to the corners of his eyes. His left leg twitches, chest heaves, and the sheets lap at his sensitive nipples like a kitten’s tongue. A hand presses between his shoulder blades, skin so hot it’s scorching. The fingers in him pause, and time holds its breath.

“What do you want, Dean?” 

Syllables penetrate the wall of fog like shafts of sunlight, and Dean squints, tries to remember how to speak as words elude him like fae creatures. The hand on his back pushes down, pressure in his chest, and the burst of adrenaline clears his head. 

“You. Want you. Christ—”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Dean.”

Dean loves it when Cas says his name like that. Like an intimate whisper, a secret to be cherished, a promise to be kept. A thing to be possessed. Dean forgets about his life, his fans, his career,  _ himself, _ and just  _ feels _ . It was exhilarating the first time Cas laid his mark on him, and it still sends a jolt through Dean every time Cas brands him with the swipe of a tongue or the thrust of his cock. “F-fuck—” 

“Yes, that is the idea.” Cas’ teeth dance along the shell of Dean’s ear, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust that takes Dean’s breath away.

Fingers withdraw, leaving Dean aching, but he’s not empty for long. The hot press of Cas’ cock and the coolness of the barb embedded in the head tease his opening and Dean locks up, every muscle taut with anticipation. 

“I love it when you tense up around my dick like you want to break it off,” Cas hisses, “but you need to relax. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Hands stroke along Dean’s hips, then around the globes of his ass. Strong fingers knead and massage, pulling and coaxing until Dean’s breathing deeply into the sheets. His body softens like clay beneath the skilled fingers of an artist. 

The breach isn’t painful, but it is an odd sensation Dean never gets used to. He braces himself, fingers twisting in abused sheets, and shuts his eyes until the discomfort melts into something pleasurable. A fullness that reminds him just how empty he was before he met Cas. 

The feeling is fleeting, chased away by the thickness pressing into him, reaching and settling into a place even Dean can’t reach. Dry heat envelops Dean as Cas’ chest presses into his back, smothering him with the weight of his body and touch. 

“I’m going to fuck you, Dean”—Cas’ hips pull back and the barb catches on the rim—“and I want to hear you scream. Can you do that for me, babe?” 

The words land on his sweat-soaked skin, sink into him and twist like a key, unlocking the last floodgate. Cas slams back into him, thick cock splitting him in half, and the cold scrape of the barb sets Dean’s blood boiling. He shouts into the sheets, and when his lungs struggle for air, Dean lifts his head only to choke on the inhale. 

Cas has him by the hips, bruising fingers holding him in place, and pulls back until his piercing drags along Dean’s prostate. Back and forth in controlled thrusts with agonizing precision, and the weight of the solid metal sends wave after wave of blinding pleasure up Dean’s spine. It spreads along his limbs, pools in his toes and fingertips, and blows through Dean like dynamite. 

Dean couldn’t stop his crescendo of desperate cries even if he tried. Lost in a sea of sensation and over stimulation, he teeters on the razor-sharp edge between control and release. He’s sobbing, having trouble breathing, and his fingers ache with the force of  twisting the sheets. The pleasure is painful, and the pain oh so pleasurable. Everything blurs, and the only thing in focus is Cas’ cock holding him open, his piercing milking Dean with a relentless ferocity until—

“C-Cas I’m—I’m—” A flash of blinding white, and the sharp tang of copper fills his mouth as his orgasm shocks through him. His cock twitches, rope after rope of come coat his stomach and spill onto the sheets. Cas fucks him through the aftershocks, whispers sweet nothings into the air between them, and the words fall like pixie dust, lifting Dean until his soul is floating among the clouds.         

The grip on his hips tightens, nails digging into his flesh, but Dean’s too blissed out to care. Cas slams into him, rhythm faltering, and sharp pain reins Dean in as Cas’ teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder, his hot come spilling into Dean like a claim. 

The room echoes with their harsh breathing. It’s another muted moment before Cas groans and pulls out. He flops beside Dean, pulls him into a sticky hug, and Dean squirms in the solid arms wrapped around him, turning to face Cas.

In the dim light of Cas’ bedroom, the lines around Cas’ eyes and mouth are soft, even the jut of his jaw is more rounded. Dean grins when Cas slits open an eye and a shock of blue stares back at him. “Like what you see?” Cas asks with a smirk.

“Hell yes. Know what else I’d like?”

“What?”

“A cupcake and a coffee.”

Cas snorts and nips the tip of Dean’s nose. He rubs his eyes and yawns before rolling Dean from his embrace. “I could use a coffee as well. You cost me a lot of sleep.”

“Hey, I’m not the one making you get up at four every morning.”

“Don’t hear you complaining when you stuff your face with my cupcakes.”

“Well played, sir.” 

Cas stares at Dean for a long beat of silence, his expression unreadable, then says, “One day I’ll show you what it means to call me  _ sir _ , Dean Winchester.”

The promise hangs in the air, and Dean swallows the rush of buzzing anticipation. Cas has always been pushy and a little dominant in the bedroom. Dean’s no stranger to men and women who like to take control, but none of them ever looked at Dean like Cas is looking at him right now, with an intensity that strips Dean bare and leaves him vulnerable. 

What would it be like? Tied up and kneeling by Cas’ feet, calling him  _ sir _ and— 

“Does it hurt?” Cas stretches and rolls off the bed.

“What?” Dean blinks, following Cas’ naked ass down the hall and into the small galley kitchen. “Does what hurt?”

“When you think so hard.” Cas taps his temple and smirks. He grabs the small pink box on the counter and hands it to Dean before turning back to the coffee maker. 

“Jackass.” Dean opens the box, his heart swelling with warmth as he pulls out the single salted caramel cupcake. “You should be nicer to me.”

“Why? Because you’re a rockstar?”

“No, because I’m your goddamn boyfriend.” 

Cas pauses at the sink and his hand freezes on the tap. Dean swallows and tries to ignore the icy tendrils of fear as he licks the icing from his fingers before placing the cupcake on the counter and walking up behind Cas. His arms snake around Cas’ waist, and he hangs on a little tighter than he means to. “Speaking of which, we should turn on the TV. I got something to show you.” He hooks his chin over Cas’ shoulder.

Cas turns and catches Dean’s lips in a feather-light kiss before turning back to fill the coffee carafe with water. The soft brush of lips chases away the cold, leaving behind a numbness Dean tries to ignore. “On TV? Did you do something stupid? Do I need to queue the second hand embarrassment?” 

“You wound me,” Dean says and nips Cas’ ear. He pulls back, shivers at the loss of heat despite the ambient temperature, and pads into the living room. Cas’ apartment is modest, but his entertainment system screams of a hefty investment. Dean plops down on the couch and turns on the TV. 

The small room is awash with flickering colour, and Dean’s finger freezes on the remote. Maybe he should have asked Cas first, or shouldn’t have done it at all. But they sprung the photo on him, and Dean is so tired of denying this part of himself. Tired of hiding. They never labeled this thing he and Cas has, but it’s been a year, and—

“Earth to Dean.” Cas sits next to him with two steaming mugs and Dean’s half eaten cupcake on a plate. “As exciting as the new ShamWow guy is, I don’t think this is what you want to show me?” Cas places a hand on Dean’s knee. The touch grounds him, and Dean blows out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Okay, look, they sprung it on me and it just came out. I didn’t plan to say anything, but I did and...it felt right.” Dean sighs, flips through the DVR, and finds the show he recorded when he got to Cas’ earlier in the afternoon. “I don’t want to lie about us, Cas.”

Cas opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off with the press of a button and the TV blares into life. The tail end of Dean’s latest single trails off and Dean, along with a woman who looks way too young to be wearing a dress that low, comes on the screen. He steals a glance at Cas, twisting the remote in his hands, and turns his attention back to the show. 

“Welcome back to  _ MTV First _ …” The announcer’s preppy voice spills into the small living space, but Dean’s not listening. He knows the interview by heart. His publicist had drilled him over and over until he wanted to punch the guy in the face. Little good that did since they went off script, anyway. 

Cas cradles his coffee mug on his lap, his expression blank save for the twitch of the corner of his lips when the interviewer asked Dean an uncomfortable personal question. Which Dean fielded gracefully if he may say so.  

“While we’re on the topic of your personal life,” the woman says with a wink, “an anonymous source sent us  _ this _ earlier today.” She turns and points to the massive screen behind the couches, and a picture of Dean and Cas leaving Cas’ bakery pops up. Despite the sunglasses and baseball cap, it’s still obvious it’s Dean in the photo, laughing at something Cas said. The photograph is sharp, taken by a professional with some insane zoom lens, and the name of the bakery is visible. 

Dean was shocked when the studio sprung the picture on him, and that same lead ball of dread drops in his gut now for a whole different reason. Cas’ mug freezes inches from his lips, his knuckles white as his grip tightens around the handle. 

“Who’s this mystery man?” The Dean on TV hesitates, the pause enough of an invitation for the interviewer to plow on. “You guys look awfully friendly there.” Her tone is suggestive, but no one is dumb enough (or brave enough) to ask  _ that _ question on national TV.  

“Uh, okay.” TV Dean stares at the picture for a few heartbeats longer before turning back to face the woman staring at him with large and expectant eyes. He slaps his knees, rubs the dark denim as if to warm his hands, and his left heel taps out an erratic rhythm. There’s a moment of silence where TV Dean looks at his hands, but when he turns to stare into the camera, the jitters are gone from his limbs and his gaze is steady. “Well, if you must know. He’s my boyfriend.”

The rest of the interview fades as a soft whine rings in his ears, growing louder with each passing second as Cas stares at him with wide, blue eyes. Dean can’t read Cas’ expression, only that he’s not happy.

“When was this aired, Dean?” Cas’ voice is soft and strained.

Cas is pissed. Really pissed. Dean should have talked to him, figured out exactly what he is to Cas before assuming they’re a  _ thing. _ Definitely should not have announced it to the world without Cas’ knowledge and permission. “U-um, this afternoon.” Dean swallows. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I know we never discussed this—” 

An alarm goes off. 

“Get dressed.” Cas is already on his feet and running to the bedroom. 

Dean sits, stunned, and the pulsing shrill ring drowns out the  _ thud thud thud _ in his chest. What the fuck is happening? A bundle of clothes hit him in the face, startles him out of his stupor, and Dean looks at the pair of worn blue jeans and ratty old t-shirt in his lap. Neither are his, and hope sparks in his chest. Would Cas give Dean his clothes if he wants Dean out of his life? 

“I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to get dressed and come with me.” Cas pulls out his cellphone and taps the touch screen. The sharp tone dies mid-ring. 

Cas leads Dean down the fire escape, his head craning left and right, scanning their surroundings. Dean follows Cas down dark alleys, stopping in shadows cast by street lamps and lights from high rise lobbies. Every time they stop, a new question pops into Dean’s head, and every time he opens his mouth, Cas squeezes his hand and shakes his head. 

Dean’s never seen Cas like this before. From the day they met, Cas has been the epitome of stoic calmness with a side of sass. Even when he’s fucking into Dean, he’s composed and in control, just this side of a little too chill. Sometimes Dean wonders if Cas even likes having sex with him. 

But Cas is anything but relaxed now. He’s shoulders are tight with tension, and he checks every street and every alley before pulling Dean along. The few times Dean glimpses Cas’ profile, his gaze is sharp, jaw set, and there’s something in his expression that churns Dean’s stomach like a herd of stampeding buffalo.

They’re heading toward the bakery, but instead of using the main streets, Cas takes them through twists and turns of alleyways and sidestreets. “What the hell is going on?” Cas doesn’t answer, just tightens his grip around Dean’s hand. “At least tell me why we’re headed to the bakery?”

Cas pulls them onto the main street a couple blocks from the bakery and stops so abruptly Dean slams into his back. Three black SUVs are parked in front of the bakery, and men holding machine guns line the sidewalk out front. Cas herds Dean back down the alley they popped out of, and the two of them watch from the relative safety of the shadows.

A man walks up to the bakery and peers through the glass door. He turns to his companions, says something too soft for Dean to hear, then walks back to his SUV. Cas is tense beside him, body coiled liked a too-tight guitar string, ready to snap, and his teeth are grinding so loud Dean can almost feel the vibrations in his own jaw. 

The man who disappeared behind the cars comes back with a— 

“Holy shit, is that a—”

“Bazooka,” Cas hisses and elbows Dean in the ribs. “Be quiet—”

A hiss, a flash of light, and the rocket explodes, drowning out Cas’ words in a ball of fire and a shower of debris. A second hiss, hidden by the cacophony of raining glass and splintered wood, and the whole bakery goes up in flames. 

Dean stares, eyelids stuck open as shock sinks its claws into him. The flames turn orange then angry red as they lick at the ruined remains of Cas’ livelihood. The men pile into their cars, and the crackling fire swallows the roar of their engines. 

“Hi, I would like to report a fire.” Cas sounds far away. “Sixty-five forty-three Main street. A Taste of Heaven Bakery.” Strong fingers grasp Dean’s elbow and yank him back down the alley. Dean is too stunned to care where Cas is dragging him to as long as it’s away from the inferno. He plants one foot in front of the other and tries not to trip or throw up. 

What the actual fuck? Who were those men? Why did they blow up Cas’ bakery? Why Cas? Was it because of what he said? Some anti-gay cult freaks making a point after Dean outed himself and Cas on national TV? 

_ Oh god. What have I done? _

A bell chimes, breaking Dean out of his spiral of panic, and he looks around for the first time as Cas plunks his ass in a booth with squeaky vinyl seats. They’re at the diner a few blocks away from Cas’ place, one they frequent whenever Dean’s in town and shows up in the wee hours of the morning. The milkshakes here are superb and the burgers are to die for, but food is the last thing on Dean’s mind as he stares across the tacky table. 

Guilty blues avoid his gaze, and it takes a moment of cat and mouse before Dean catches Cas’ darting eyes. “Cas, fuck. I’m so sorry man. If that was because of what I said—”

“No, Dean, that was not entirely your fault,” Cas says.

“I get I fucked up—” Dean pauses and the stampede of buffalo is back. “Wait, what do you mean not  _ entirely _ my fault?”

“I—look, I’m not at liberty to say,” Cas replies and picks at his napkin. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be. I called Garth on our way here, he’s on his way to pick you up.”

“What do you mean the less I know the safer—Cas, baby,  _ please. _ ” Dean reaches across the table, but Cas pulls his hand away and avoids Dean’s eyes once more. He turns and stares out the window, brows knitted as he watches the orange flickering in the distance. “Is there something I can do? Anything? I can’t help you if I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Dean.”

“At least...let me give you a ride home?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Cas says. “I need to think.”

The words fall between them like a finality. Guilt drills through him, point hollowing out his chest and filling it with shame until he’s drowning. He did this, even if it’s not  _ entirely _ his fault, he had a hand in destroying Cas’ life. Now Cas won’t talk to him, won’t even look at him. 

The distant wail of sirens pierces the soft diner music, and strobing red and blue join the dancing orange shadows. The waitress comes by with two mugs of coffee, and Dean thanks her with a wan smile. Cas is statue still, eyes glued to the darkness beyond the fluorescent light of the diner, and Dean fidgets, unsure what to do with his hands. 

Another black SUV pulls up to the curb, and Garth smiles through the open window. Dean tries to catch Cas’ eyes through the murky reflection in the diner window, and when he fails, lead fists punch him in the stomach. He pushes out of the booth, pulls a twenty from his wallet, and slides it across the bar on his way out. The bell chimes, and the door swings shut on its muted jingle. 

***

The call goes straight to voicemail. Dean glares at his cell before tucking it into his pocket with force. It’s been a week since the...whatever the fuck that was, and Dean’s obligations had taken him out of town and away from Cas. Not that it mattered; Cas has gone radio silent since that night. No calls, no texts, just an empty void where Dean used to store his heart. 

The car stops a block away from Cas’ apartment—the usual spot—and Dean squeezes Garth’s shoulder before yanking on the door handle. “If I’m not back down in ten, head on home.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. Winchester.” 

“Seriously, dude. Call me Dean.” 

“All right, Mr. Dean. See you in ten.”

Dean shakes his head and chuckles. Garth always makes him smile no matter how shitty a day he’s having. He takes the steps leading up to the front gate two at a time and slips his key into the deadbolt. When it became obvious Dean didn’t keep “regular people hours,” Cas gave him a key so Dean could stop by whenever he had a free moment. Be that moment at two in the morning or four in the afternoon.

The lock turns with a click, and Dean can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. He bypasses the ancient elevator and pushes through the door to the staircase, running up the three flights of stairs to Cas’ floor. Cas’ door hangs ajar, the frame splintered where it looks like someone had kicked the door open. Dean toes the broken slab of wood and it opens to reveal Cas’ ransacked apartment. 

Dean inhales sharply, and his skin turns to ice as he takes a step inside. He should leave, call the cops, do anything but take another step, but his feet move on their own as his heart hammers in his ribcage. The place is in shambles. The small dinner table and chairs sit in a pile of splintered wood and shattered dishes, and dented pots litter the kitchen floor. Cas’ state-of-the-art entertainment system is a heap of broken screens and junked electronics on the living room floor. 

The bedroom isn’t in any better shape, and Dean tries not to panic over what looks like bullet holes in the headboard. Cas isn’t here. Dean dashes out of the apartment like his ass is on fire. Bile rises in his throat, and what little food he ate earlier threatens a reappearance. The nausea doesn’t let up until he’s standing on the sidewalk, bent over with his hands on his knees and gasping. 

He should call the police, but something stops him. Instead, Dean climbs back into the SUV and tells Garth to take him home. The trip back to the hotel is a dark blur of trees and old brick buildings. Dean tries to call Cas once more, not surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. Before long, the familiar lights of the Fairmont entrance spills through the windshield. 

“If you need anything, I’m a phone call away.” Garth waves before pulling away, and Dean watches the driver side window go up as the SUV makes a left turn and disappears into the night. 

Dean punches the button for the elevator and sags against the railing as soon as the door closes. He should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be an early morning since he took the day to come back in the middle of a recording session. He shouldn’t even be here for another month, but a whole month of not knowing would have killed him. 

Except now he’s even more worried, and every time the state of Cas’ place flashes through his mind, his chest squeezes a little tighter and his stomach drops a little closer to the floor. Where the fuck is Cas? Who were those guys? Is Cas still even alive? 

Pain lances through his chest, sharp and metallic, and Dean gasps into the private space of the elevator. Cas has to be alive. Dean can’t allow himself to think otherwise. But the bakery, and the apartment, and the bullet holes, and—

The elevator pings and the doors whisper open. Dean staggers to his room, swipes the keycard twice with trembling hands, and tumbles into suffocating darkness. 

It was in a room not unlike this one where Dean had his first dose of Cas. Where Dean lost himself in the galaxy behind Cas’ intense blue eyes. Dean leans his head against the solid door and slides against it until he’s a crumpled pile on the rough carpet. Cas said it wasn’t  _ entirely _ his fault, which means it was still his fault.  Dean should have kept his mouth shut. 

Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but Dean brushes them away with an angry swipe of the back of his hand. He doesn't deserve the comfort of tears. If only he’d kept to the script. If only he’d used his goddamn head before opening his big, fat mouth. If only—   

“Dean.”

Dean’s head snaps up, eyes straining through unshed tears to see into the darkness. The bedside lamp flicks on with a click and an electric buzz, and Cas’ blue eyes bore into him. 

“Cas?” Dean struggles to his feet, his heart hammering so loud he’s sure Cas can hear it. “What—how—I saw your place, I thought—” 

Cas springs out of his chair and closes the distance between them, swallowing Dean’s words with a hungry kiss. Dean’s lips part without urging, tongue pressing against the seam of Cas’ mouth like a plea. He’s reeling, tossed about in a storm of emotions like a rag doll. But he’s not lost at sea when Cas is cradling the back of his head, his tongue thrusting past Dean’s lips to claim his mouth. 

They kiss like they’ve never kissed before, like it’s the first and last kiss they’ll ever share. Dean winds his arms around Cas, fingers digging into solid flesh, molding his body into Cas’ solid form, and the smallest inkling of a thought worms its way through the fog in his head. How does a baker have a body like a goddamn Marine? Was Cas military? Dean never thought to ask, and that same shaft of guilt lances through him; why didn’t he ever bother to learn about Cas’ past? Some boyfriend he is. 

Dean pulls back, but Cas doesn’t let that deter him, just leans in and latches wet lips onto the curve of Dean’s neck. Teeth nip the thin skin there, and Dean gasps as he slumps back against the door. Fuck, how can he think when Cas’ lips are trailing down his throat, tongue lapping at the nip marks that are sure to bruise in the morning? 

Strong fingers tug on Dean’s button-down, untucking his shirt tails, and Dean gasps when the fabric strains before buttons clatter into the shadows. Cas’ lips are back on his heated skin, mouth and tongue wet as he trails nibbling kisses from one nipple to the other. He shoves the ruined shirt over Dean’s shoulders and down his arms, and Dean loses the ability to form words. 

The solid door is a shocking chill against his back and Dean arches, but Cas shoves him back with a firm hand. He yanks open the button of Dean’s jeans and thoughts flee out the window. 

Dean’s hips thrust forward with a mind of their own. “C-Cas—”

“I’m going to fuck you, Dean,” Cas says against the dip of Dean’s hip. Knees strike rough carpet as his fingers make light work of Dean’s zipper. “But I want to taste you first.”

The room shrinks until Dean’s focus is centered on the tip of Cas’ tongue. And then all is wet heat and pressure when Cas plunges forward. Cas’ throat is velvet soft and slick. He swallows, and Dean forgets the state of Cas’ apartment, forgets his panic and regret, forgets his own goddamn name, and basks in the warmth of Cas’ mouth. 

Dean’s moans and whimpers bounce off the walls. Cas wastes no time as his head moves forward and back, lips stretched obscenely around Dean’s cock, and every time he looks up with hollow cheeks, Dean’s heart does a somersault. The pressure is building too fast, but Dean can’t stop the spread of liquid fire burning him up from the inside. “Fuck, Cas—baby, I can’t—you’re gonna—I’m gonna—” Cas drags nails down his thighs, and Dean’s fingers spasm around fistfuls of dark, unruly hair. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ—” 

Dean’s hips jerk, knees trembling like a newborn calf, and Cas’ lips around his dick are the only thing keeping him upright. He shouts something incoherent, a cry and a moan and perhaps Cas’ name rolled into one, and he’s shooting down Cas’ throat. 

Cas swallows quickly, but when he pulls back, come trickles from the corner of his mouth. “What did I say about taking the Lord’s name in vain?”

One day, when Dean’s not riding a post-orgasmic cloud or getting fucked to within an inch of his life, he’ll have a response to that. Alas, today is not that day, and Dean grunts when Cas grabs him and throws him on the bed. 

“Spread your legs for me, Dean.” Cas yanks his belt off with a whisper of leather. “I want to see your face when you take my cock.” 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, his heart jackhammering away in his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s the lingering adrenaline in his blood or the way Cas is looking at him. He’s had his fair share of worship and adoration, but no one’s looked at Dean like he’s champagne and caviar served on a silver platter. 

Cas sheds his clothes as if they burn his skin. He crawls onto the bed—all taut muscle and predatory stare—and Dean’s legs part to let Cas in. Dean stares down the plane of Cas’ torso, follows Cas’ every breath as his chest rises and falls, and Dean’s own breathing slows to match. Cas captures Dean’s lips in another kiss. There’s no urgency this time, no desperate sweeps of tongue and impatient nibbles, just languid presses of kiss-swollen lips that taste like nothing and everything at once. 

Dean doesn’t know when Cas grabbed the lube, the sharp pop of the cap his only warning before the cool press of a finger against his hole jerks him up for air. Cas kisses him through the breach, swallows Dean’s pained whimper when he adds a second finger, and only breaks away long enough to shove a pillow under Dean’s ass before slipping three fingers back in him.  

“Hm, so eager for me, baby,” Cas murmurs, and the thin halos of his eyes glow in the semi-darkness.

Cas slots back between Dean's splayed legs, radiating like the goddamn sun. His lips dot along Dean’s collarbone, tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat, and Dean squirms as Cas takes him apart one thrust at a time. 

He arches off the bed, muscles straining, breaths labored, then those skilled fingers find that spot inside and Dean’s eyes screw shut with a shout. Fuck, he needs so much more, yet it's already too much. Everything tingles and bright spots splash behind his eyelids with each peak of pleasure. 

Dean likes to explore in bed, and Cas is no vanilla bean ice cream either, but there’s something about missionary that spells...special. Intimate. Like a lover’s dance that belongs to just the two of them. Cas leans back, teeth worrying his bottom teeth as his gaze drops between Dean’s legs, and Dean can feel Cas’ cock disappear inside him inch by thick, breathtaking inch.

The hotel room is a little less foreign, the sheets a little less cool when Cas holds him, his cock driving into him. Each thrust chips away his earlier panic, and contentment takes its place. Dean stares up into Cas’ hooded eyes and finds himself in the vastness of all that blue. 

A singular truth. 

He loves Cas. And it takes almost losing him for Dean to finally solidify this thought. Dean doesn’t know when he started falling for Cas, but god, he loves this man and all his sass and snark and weird obsession with not taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

“Fuck—” Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “I love you.” He doesn’t need Cas to say it back, doesn’t even need Cas to love him. The words are for himself as much as they are for the man moving on top of him. 

Cas’ hips stutter, freeze, and his breath hitches for a split second. Something flashes behind bright blue eyes, but Dean can’t read Cas’ expression. Cas seems to soften against Dean, then his hips move again, and the barb embedded in the tip of his cock sends new waves of shocking pleasure through his veins. 

Strong arms wrap around Dean’s shoulders, grip so tight Dean winces. Cas’ hips stutter, his rhythm goes to shit, and then he's shouting his pleasure into Dean's sweat-slicked skin. It's over too soon, but also not soon enough as thought penetrates Dean's post-coital bliss. He's got questions, dammit, and he will get some goddamn answers tonight. 

“Dean,” Cas says into the soft lamplight surrounding them. “I need you to stay low for a while.”

“Uh—” Dean turns on his side and props himself on his elbow. “That's not gonna happen. Rockstar, contractual obligations, remember?”

“Talk to your publicist, make something up.”

“Unless someone's out to get me or something, they'll never go for it.”

Cas growls, and Dean's not sure if he's more scared or turned on. But this is hardly the time to be thinking about that. Not when Cas wants him to go underground. “Seriously, Cas, what the fuck is going on?”

Silence stretches between them like a rubber band, each passing moment becoming tenser until the whole thing is ready to snap. “Castiel Novak is not my real name,” Cas says, snapping the rubber band so hard all Dean can do is gape as something sour twists in his gut. “I've been in witness protection for over a decade.”

“What?”

“They found me when my face showed up on national television. Not many bakeries with a name like  _ A Taste of Heaven _ .” 

“Fuck, so it was my fault,” Dean hisses and that something sour turns bitter. 

“No, how would you have known? If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I put away some really horrible people. They’re not particularly happy about that,” Cas says. “And now I've dragged you into this.” Cas turns to face Dean, and the look on his face breaks Dean's heart into pieces. 

“Okay, so”—Dean scrubs a hand down his face—“shouldn’t you be talking to the cops or something? They’ll give you a new identity, right?”

“I tried. They have someone on the inside.”

“Who exactly did you put away?”

“Someone bad. Like sells little girls into prostitution bad. Anyway, he’ll use any way he can to get to me, and that means he might try to hurt you, or worse.”

“Yeah, but why—”

The door blows open in a shower of splinters. A metal cylinder bounces across the room. Cas’ eyes widen and his mouth opens, but his words are lost to Dean as the grenade explodes with a boom and a flash of blinding light. 

He blinks, nothing but an expanse of white swallows him, and the ringing in his ears is deafening. Nausea hits him in the gut. His skin’s too tight. Head too big, like a swarm of bees trying to push their way out of his skull. 

Rough hands grasp his arms and yank him out of bed. Dean lands on his hip and cries out. His back and thighs burn. Someone’s dragging him across the carpet. His shoulders scream, and Dean scrambles his feet under him to lessen the pressure. 

His vision’s fuzzy but clearing, and the glare of overhead lights churns his stomach. Cas stumbles through the warped door frame. He’s clutching his head and leaning against the wall. His mouth is moving, and Dean can just make out the repeated echoes of his name. 

What the fuck is happening? 

A pair of black dress shoes saunter past Dean, a jaunt in the steps. The owner of those shoes yanks Cas’ head back and whispers something in his ear, then throws a punch into Cas’ side. Fear turns into white hot rage. Dean screams and bucks, ignoring the jarring pain in his shoulders. 

A hard crack against his head, and all is silence as darkness claims him. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Here you go, Mr. Milton.” The bank teller points to the curtained off room. “Please let me know if I can be of any more assistance.”

“Thank you, Henry.” Castiel, or rather Steve Milton, nods with a faint smile and runs his thumb along the key in his pocket. He waits until the curtain settles behind him before sticking the key in the safe deposit box. 

It’s been over a decade since he opened one of these, but the click of the lock still grounds him. He surveys the contents of the slender box: a passport in the name of his new alias, a stash of cash, a handgun, two spare magazines, and a set of car keys. Everything he needs to become someone else. Doing it the legal way worked for a while, but ultimately the only person he can rely on is himself. 

He tucks the gun in the waistband of his jeans, slips the magazines in his jacket pocket, and places the money and car keys in his backpack. The passport stares at him from the bottom of the box, but his fingers freeze on the textured cover as the events of the previous night come back to him.   

_ Ketch sends his regards. _

Castiel inhales deeply and curses under his breath. The previous night replays like a movie in slow motion, and Castiel kicks himself for the hundredth time. He was monitoring the apartment, so why wouldn’t Ketch’s men be as well? It’s been too long, and he has gotten sloppy, but it doesn’t matter. He has his new life in his backpack, and as soon as he gets to the little Prius hidden away in a long-term parkade, he’ll be free. 

Except, now it does matter. Because Dean matters. 

_ Two three nine nine Sixth Street, nine pm, or pretty boy dies.  _

Castiel yanks his sunglasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. His left eye throbs and weeps under the harsh fluorescent light—courtesy of Ketch’s goon—and Castiel shoves the glasses back on with a vengeance. When he followed Dean back to his hotel room that first time a year ago, Castiel never intended things to get serious. Whether they ever discussed labels or not, Dean had called Castiel his boyfriend on national television, and that’s more than he ever deserved. 

_ I love you. _

Three little words, a gift, uttered without reservation and expectation. Guilt sits in the back of his throat like a bad cold, itchy and tight. He didn’t say it back. And now Dean’s life is in danger because of Castiel’s choices, and for the first time in his thirty-eight years, regret eats at him like acid. 

Men like Castiel, with so much blood on their hands, do not get happy endings; they get to go out like a stick of dynamite. Messy with bits blown all over. Ketch won’t stop until Castiel is dead, and Castiel’s more than happy to trade his life for Dean’s. 

The thought that he’s willing to die for Dean unfurls a surprising contentment in his chest. Castiel shakes his head, but he can’t shake this fuzzy feeling as it spreads into his limbs. He doesn’t want to be the Angel of Death anymore, but he will kill again if it means saving Dean. 

Fuck. He’s in way over his head. 

With another soft curse, he leaves the passport untouched and shuts the lid of the safe deposit box. Steve Milton will have to wait. He pockets the key and parts the curtain with a flutter and a rasp of metal. Henry steps inside the room to collect the box. Castiel does not wait for his return before slipping out of the bank and into the bright morning sun. 

The screen on his burner reads ten after eleven. He has just under ten hours to make his phone calls and figure out how to get Dean out of this alive. His thumb flies over the number pad, muscle memory more than anything dials the number he hopes is still in service. 

The call goes through on the fourth ring. “What?”

“It’s me.”

A beat of silence. “Bloody hell. It’s Castiel, now, correct?”

“I won’t ask how you know that.” The corners of Castiel’s lips curl up despite his mood. “It’s been a while.”

“Ten years is a long time. I’m surprised you still remember this number.”

“You’re a hard man to forget.” 

“I take you aren’t calling to reminisce about old times.” A chuckle followed by a long sigh. 

“You always just know,” Castiel says. “I need you to do something for me, Zar.”

***

The sun is a ball of yellow fire and the sky is a vibrant painting of orange and blue. Great for a pair of lovebirds enjoying a first date; not so great for an ex-hitman on a suicide mission hoping to ride the shadows. Two three nine nine Sixth Street turns out to be an abandoned warehouse. Castiel’s not surprised; can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and in Ketch’s case, he’s got his head stuck so far up his ass there’s no room, anyway.

He makes a mental note of each weapon tucked away beneath his trench coat and takes a deep breath. It’s been a while, but muscle memory obtained from a lifetime of violence and bloodshed comes back easy.

Castiel scales the side of the decrepit building and shimmies through a broken window. Grimy glass blocks out the setting sun, and Castiel stands still to allow his eyes time to adjust to the semi darkness. Light shines up from the ground floor, each filtered shaft illuminating swirling dust motes. He breathes in and out with care, his ears straining for any sound. With any luck, they’re keeping Dean in a separate room. One he hopes to find before confronting Ketch. 

The sound of slow footsteps drifts from the ground floor. Castiel pulls his gun from the holster and creeps forward until he’s staring down at the wide space downstairs. Four men pace lazy rounds around a single figure tied to a chair. Castiel swallows a string of curses and grips his gun tighter. So much for his rescue mission.

He flips open his phone and the screen lights up with the time. Eight fifty-seven. He can get back down and enter through the front door, but there’s not enough time, and Ketch is a man of his word when it comes to killing people. Allowing himself a muttered curse this time, Castiel grips the rusty railing and vaults over, his coat fluttering as he drops to the ground floor. 

Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have felt the landing, but he was younger and in better shape then. Despite the shoulder roll, Castiel grunts as he hits the concrete, but he comes up with his gun pointed. He’s glad he’s not as out of breath as he’d feared. The appearance of confidence is half the battle. 

If the men are surprised by his dramatic entrance, they don’t show it as they draw their weapons. These are not new recruits still wet behind the ears; these are well trained killers. Castiel spares Dean a glance and rage flares like fire on gasoline. Dean’s right eye is swollen shut, the bruise black and purple, and blood soaks the front of his shirt. 

“Cas?” His voice is raspy, as if he has been screaming. 

“Cas, is it?” A voice Castiel hoped to never hear again drawls from the shadows. The goons converge on that voice, their guns pointed at Castiel, and Arthur Ketch strolls into the light. 

“That’s Castiel to you.” Castiel points his gun at the man in the tailored suit and gleaming shoes.

“That’s not your name.”

“It is now.” 

Ketch  _ tsks _ and takes a step closer. “Doesn’t matter what you go by. A snake will always be a snake,” he says. “At least this time you’re pointing a gun at my head. As they say, betrayal you see coming is easier to stomach than the traitors who stab you in the back.”

“You had it coming,” Castiel grits and takes a step back, shielding Dean as much as he can.

“Don’t pretend like you’re innocent.”

“I never agreed to trafficking underage girls.” 

“So, a day over eighteen and they’re good for merchandising?” 

“You know that is not what I mean.” Castiel swallows, eyes locked on Ketch as he strolls a half circle before spinning on his heels and going in the opposite direction. Castiel needs to stay focused, and he ignores the suffocating fear of what opinions Dean’s forming about Castiel’s past. “My job was to—”

“Yes, yes, yes. Angel of Death. You were my attack dog,” Ketch cuts in. “You know what we do to rabid dogs that turn on their masters?” Ketch stops mid-step and pulls a gun from under his suit jacket. 

“Cas, no!” The booming shot drowns out Dean’s cry and echoes in the open space. 

The bullet rips through him, and the shock of it dulls the pain for a fraction of a second before firecrackers explode in Castiel’s left shoulder. He rights himself from the blow, grits against the scream clawing at his throat, and grips his gun so tight his fingertips go numb. The vest he’s wearing can only do so much, and Ketch knows exactly where Kevlar ends and soft tissue begins. 

He wants to shoot back, to wipe that calculating smirk off Ketch’s face, but that’s not part of the plan. He needs to stall just a little longer.

“I’ve dreamt of putting that bullet through you for over ten years,” Ketch says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” Castiel spits between pained, laboured breaths as a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. “Just let Dean go. He’s not involved in any of this.”

“He got involved with you. In my book that’s a death sentence.”

“Isn’t killing someone that high-profile counterproductive to a prison escapee?”

Ketch takes a step toward Castiel, and Castiel holds his ground. The gun grows heavy in his hand; his arm isn’t used to the weight anymore. Shiny brogues eat the distance between them, and the gleam in Ketch’s eyes is an icicle straight to Castiel’s heart. Ketch is looking at him, but his gun is aimed at Dean’s head. 

“You will watch me ruin him. Do things to him you wished you were man enough to do. You always liked the screams, didn’t you?” Ketch crowds into Castiel’s personal space, his chest pushing into the barrel of Castiel’s gun, and Castiel straightens under the challenging glare. 

His arm hangs numb and useless by his side, blood dripping from the fingertips. Heat creeps along the collar of his coat, and his face burns with Ketch’s words. He did enjoy the screams, but he can't explain to Dean he's not like that anymore. Not that it matters after this— 

“I am going to gut him like a pig, then I’ll turn  _ your _ guts into a pincushion,” Ketch hisses with a glint of insanity in his eyes. “There are fifteen more bullets with your name on them, whatever the hell it is these days.” 

The muted strobe of blue, red, and white penetrates the grime on the windows, fills the warehouse with dancing shadows, and the sharp  _ whoop whoop _ of sirens shreds the coil of tension wrapped around Castiel’s throat. He lowers his gun and the corners of his lips twitch. “Castiel Novak. Remember it when you sit in your new cell. They’ll make sure you never leave it again.”  

Colour drains from Ketch’s face, his skin extra pale under the pulsing blue lights. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“You really think I’m stupid enough to come without backup?”

“You called the cops? But my contact on the inside—”

“Had no clue.” Castiel leans in close, his lips brush along the shell of Ketch’s ear. “Checkmate, asshole.” 

The front door flies off the hinges and a cacophony of voices shouting “FBI” and “police” fill the air. Castiel doesn’t look away from Ketch’s face, doesn’t blink, as if he’s etching the snarl into his brain with a sharp knife. Red and green laser dots converge on Ketch’s torso, and only after someone yanks him away does Castiel let out the breath he’s holding in a slow stream of air.

An officer slashes Dean out of his bindings and leads him out of the building despite his protests. Castiel holsters his gun, but before he can chase after Dean, another officer ushers him out the door and to the back of an ambulance. 

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” the paramedic says as he tries to peel off Castiel’s coat. When he fails, he holds up a pair of scissors. “We need to get this off and stop the flow. Then we need to send you to the hospital for surgery.” 

“It’s a clean shot. Bullet went through.” Castiel shrugs out of his coat with a grimace, then peels back the shoulder of his ruined shirt. Dean's in good hands, but Castiel needs to see with his own eyes that Dean's okay. Going to the hospital is out of the question. “If it’s not too much trouble, just disinfect and sew it up, please.” 

The paramedic blinks, but before he can respond a familiar voice cuts him off. “Castiel Novak, huh? It suits you.”

“Alfie.” Castiel turns and finds a young man wearing an FBI Kevlar vest jogging towards them, a genuine smile on his face. “Did not expect you to come out in person.”

“That’s Special Agent Angel to you.” Alfie grips Castiel’s outstretched hand and pulls him in for a careful hug. “The old man said this was big. And he said there would be a surprise if I came out. He was right.” 

The paramedic cleans and dresses the wound with practiced efficiency. By the time he’s done, the pain has receded to a dull ache. It’s more unpleasant than Castiel remembers; he really has gone soft. Alfie waits with his hands clasped behind his back, and when Castiel pulls his coat back on, Alfie waves for him to follow. 

Strobe beacons light up the empty lot outside the building like a carnival. Castiel and Alfie weave their way between black SUVs and police cruisers parked at haphazard angles. The sun has set, but the warm night breeze feels cleansing on his clammy skin. Castiel wants to find Dean, wants to check him from head to toe and kiss apologies into every bruise, but that will have to wait because as important as Dean is, so is family.  

“Are you two finally—”

“No,” Alfie says and his voice takes on an icy edge. “But it is good to see you.”

“Alfie, he’s still your father.” 

“Don’t start. Please. He’s made his choice and I’ve made mine.” Alfie tries for a smile. “We’ll always be on opposite sides of the law, and there’s nothing you can say that will change that.”

“It’s who he is, but he loves you.” 

“I know.” 

They stand in companionable silence as the hubbub washes over them. The Angels took Castiel and Gabe in, treated them like their own. Even after Gabe was killed, and Castiel’s thirst for revenge led him to get involved with Ketch, they still had his back. Zar made sure Gabe had the funeral he deserved even if Castiel was too busy doing Ketch’s dirty work to attend. 

It’s hard for Castiel to grasp the little ankle biter who used to sit on his shoulders now runs his own team of FBI agents.  

Castiel clears his throat and tries to shake off the melancholy. “I’d like to go find my friend.”

“Of course. We’ll take him to the hospital after you’re done,” Alfie says and holds out his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle.”  

It’s Castiel who drags Alfie in for a hug this time, and he holds on a little longer than necessary. Putting Ketch away meant leaving everything and everyone behind. Not watching little Alfie grow into the man he is hurts Castiel more than he cares to admit. “I’m proud of you.” Without a backward glance, Castiel forces himself to walk away, the edges of his vision blurring.  

Castiel heads for the nearest ambulance and finds it empty. He’s scanning the lot when a soft voice halts him. “Hey, Cupcake Police.” Dean’s huddled under a blanket on the back of a second ambulance, and the area around him is deserted. Castiel shakes his head. 

Dean looks up at him, large green eyes shining with something Castiel can’t read. He reaches out, fingers trembling, and touches the bruise on Dean’s temple, traces along Dean’s cheek and jaw, and the pad of his thumb brushes the cut on Dean’s bottom lip. Christ, they did a number on his face. 

As if reading his mind, Dean says with a chuckle, “I said not the face, but they wouldn’t listen.” 

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat and takes a seat next to Dean, careful to leave a few inches between them. His mind goes blank. He doesn’t know how to face Dean after all that, doesn’t know how to explain. How does he apologize for something like this? 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Dean whispers, and Castiel’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Castiel or himself.

Guilt shafts through him and knocks the breath from his lungs. Everything is his fault. He planted the seed twenty years ago when he jumped in bed with Ketch. He was stupid, good with a gun, and he had a moral compass that couldn’t find North if his life depended on it. The money was good, the thrill exhilarating. Twenty years later, he’s paying for his mistakes, only it’s not just his life on the line anymore. 

“We both know that’s not true,” Castiel says into the stretch of space in front of them, scared to look at Dean. “He will never come after you again, I promise.” 

“How can you promise that?” 

“Just know that I do.” Castiel turns to face Dean and leans in to brush his lips against the unbruised corner of Dean’s mouth. “I always keep my promises.”

His phone chimes once in his pocket. An FBI agent runs past them, shouting something, then suddenly all is chaos as car doors slam and sirens blare and cars peel out of the lot at speed.

That’s his signal. It’s time. 

“When you’re ready. Call a press conference or something and tell the world Dean Winchester is a bachelor again.”

“What”—Dean’s hand snakes out and grabs the lapel of his coat—“the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s for the best.” Castiel cups Dean’s hand and gently pries his fingers loose. When he lets go of Dean’s hand, a piece of him goes with Dean. “You’re safer without me. Castiel Novak is dead.”

Two agents push past Castiel and drag Dean into the back of the ambulance. The door shuts, and the bus pulls away with a squeal of rubber. Castiel sucks a deep breath, then another. He stands in the middle of the emptying lot, waits until all the lights are gone and the sirens are distant echoes, then turns and walks toward his car hidden in the shadows. 

***

The alley smells of stale urine and frying grease. It smells like the not-so-fond memories of his youth, when dumpster diving was his and Gabe’s main way of survival. But he survived, and that's what matters. Castiel has done some unsavory things, some he detested, others he was indifferent to, but he's never looked forward to any of them. Until now. 

A door hidden on the side of the building flies open, filling the empty alley with a sudden blast of EDM and pulsing lights. Balthazar Angel strolls out in his flashy, blue velvet suit and white loafers. Behind him, two men drag a third with his hands tied behind his back and a black hood over his head through the door before it bangs shut. They shove him forward, and the man lands with a grunt on his knees in front of Castiel. 

“Hello, old friend,” Zar says. 

“Hello, Zar.” Castiel watches the hooded figure kneeling by his feet. “That's him?”

“The one and only—” 

Castiel pulls out his gun and puts two bullets in the hood. The body topples over without a sound. 

“Christ, give a man some warning next time.”

“Zar, please do not take the Lord's name in vain.” Castiel tucks his gun away. One of Zar’s men yanks the hood off the body, and Ketch’s dead eyes stare into nothingness. It suits him, this dead fish look. “Alfie did a good job.”

“That’s my boy,” Zar says with a smile. It's the same strained, sad smile Alfie had. “He's going to be livid when he finds out I'm the one who hijacked his prisoner.”

“I know I should have let the authorities deal with it, but I couldn’t afford him getting out again.”

“I know. We've had our differences, but you're still family, even if you refuse to take our name.” Zar’s expression softens. It carves into Castiel deeper than any knife. 

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“It’s a good day when the infamous Krushnic owes me a favour.” 

“Dmitri Krushnic is dead.” 

“I take it Castiel Novak’s days are also numbered.” Zar grips his good shoulder and gives it a long squeeze. 

“I need to disappear,” Castiel says, and the words sting like hornets.

“Ketch is dead. You can come home.” 

“I screwed a lot of people over when I put Ketch away. He's not the only one who wants me dead.”

Zar sighs and points at the body. “Deal with that,” he says to the two men behind him then turns back to Castiel. “If you ever need anything, you know where to find me. Take care, Mish.” 

Castiel’s throat closes at the nickname. Zar yanks the side door open, but he’s gone before Castiel can say anything to embarrass himself. A black sedan backs down the alley, and Zar’s men throw Ketch’s body into the trunk like it is nothing, like garbage. 

The trunk shuts like an absolution. Castiel palms the passport in his coat pocket. 

Steve Milton. 

He chants the name like a mantra and walks out of the alley. 


	3. Epilogue

Dean shuts the dressing room door and slumps on the couch. His hand are shaking, ears ringing, and his eyes flutter shut as he basks in the screams echoing from the concert hall. His chest swells, and he doesn’t know what to do with the energy that fills him despite jumping and running on stage for the past two hours. 

Performing in front of his fans keeps him going, especially after the...the incident a year ago. Dean threw himself headlong into his music, released more singles in one year than the past three combined. When he’s sitting in his studio, surrounded by his music, it’s easy to forget he was kidnapped and almost killed. Easy to pretend he didn’t fuck up the only thing other than music he ever cared about. 

Pain smothers his post-show euphoria like dirt over a forest fire. A pair of piercing blue eyes flashes unbidden in the darkness behind his eyelids. His eyes snap open, and Dean grabs his headphones from the dressing table and snugs them over his ear. He turns on his phone, taps the music app, and his thumb hovers over the Cupcake playlist when a text message from an unknown number pops up. 

_ Hey, Salted Caramel. It’s the Cupcake Police.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a ride! Thanks to everyone who's continued to read and support this little verse <3!


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